


The Time Being

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Goodbyes, John in Afghanistan, M/M, Poetry, Time Skips, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> John and Sherlock meet a day before John has to go into the army and they make a date to meet 10 years after that in the same place - anon</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i><b>Prompt:</b> A series of snapshots of different Christmases from when the boys were little (and/or didn't know each other) until they actually get together? Like a bit of angst with a happy ending? - areichenbachmiracle</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Sherlock sends John off from King's Cross the day before Christmas Eve, he can't bear the thought that it's really goodbye, no matter how much John insists a clean break is best, so he suggests a compromise: Meeting up in that same place 7 years later. What follows are snapshots of the next seven Christmases, chronicling the changes in each man's life, but just because they're growing separately, doesn't mean they're growing apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Being

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Здесь и сейчас](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962174) by [Hedwig221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig221b/pseuds/Hedwig221b)



> I know these are a little slow right now, but they're really long, and I promise I'll get caught up once exams are over!
> 
> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).

_**So I wait for you like a lonely house** _  
_**till you will see me again and live in me.** _  
_**Till then my windows ache** _  
_**\--Pablo Neruda--** _

**December 23 rd, 2007**

The coffee was cold in Sherlock’s hands, his fingers wrapped loosely around the paper cup on the black plastic table. He glanced up at the screen, the glowing yellow numbers slowly eating away the time they had left. “We should-” he murmured, looking back, but John shook his head.

“No,” he said, tapping his tan fingers against the edge of his own cup, his foot shifting where it was pressed to Sherlock’s beneath the table. “Not yet.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it, nodding briefly before dropping his face back to the table with a swallow.

Normally, he always had something to say, some clever quip or snarky comment, but there was nothing now, too many nights already lost lying awake trying to summon a solution he had known deep down had been a lost cause from the start.

“Okay,” John sighed, nodding to himself before lifting steady blue eyes, “let’s go.”

Sherlock bit back the contestation on the tip of his tongue— _he_ not really going anywhere at all—and stood, dropping his still half-full coffee into the bin as they passed.

John’s bag bumped his arm as they walked abreast, the large tan duffel slung over the blond’s shoulder, one of his hands shaking slightly where it steadied the strap.

Near the turnstiles, they stopped, John turning to him, face downcast, while Sherlock looked beyond him to the trains.

John had insisted on a clean break, or, at least, the words he forced out of his mouth while unable to make eye contact had said as much. He’d said he didn’t want Sherlock waiting around for him, said it would be better to end things now when they were together than to go through the inevitable, painfully slow decline, but Sherlock knew that wasn’t true. John just didn’t want to leave him behind, didn’t want to feel like there was someone holding their breath for a phone call every time a report of casualties came in.

Sherlock didn’t know how to tell him he’d do all that anyway, whether given permission or not, but, as had become the theme, it wasn’t really his place to say anything at all. Had he still been the university best friend of two years, he would have been able to tell John not to go, present irrefutable evidence of why king and country decidedly did _not_ require his specific services—probably with the use of colorful visual aids, perhaps a slideshow presentation—but the boyfriend upgrade of seven months ago had plucked such privileges. No longer a friend, and not a boyfriend long enough to have that sort of say, Sherlock had been powerless to be anything but supportive when John had told him he was joining the army after graduation.

And now they were here, sending John off from King’s Cross the day before Christmas Eve, and Sherlock wanted to throw himself across the tracks.

“I- I’ll-”

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock interjected, not unkind, both of them acutely aware John wouldn’t be ‘keeping in touch’.

John sighed, and Sherlock finally turned his eyes to him, tracking a swallow down the man’s throat. Blue eyes blinked up at him, torn and helpless, and then they both turned, faces pointing up toward the intercom that announced final boarding for John’s train. John took a deep breath, hitching his bag up higher onto his shoulder, and Sherlock panicked, the moment he thought he’d spent weeks preparing for suddenly upon him, and he was nowhere near ready.

“John-” he blurted, the word cracked and breathy as he stepped toward the boy, but John stopped him, a warm hand tentatively holding him back with a flat press to his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispered, shaking his head, his eyes pinched in a wince. “Please. Please don’t.”

Sherlock wavered a moment, his resolve weakening somewhat at the pain in John’s expression, but it couldn’t be this simple, this final. He wouldn’t let it. “You’ll be back, right?” he asked, and John’s hand slipped from his shirt.

“What do you mean?” he replied, tilting his head, a pang running over Sherlock’s heart at the crease between his brows.

“I mean you’ll- You’ll come back. You won’t be in the army forever. And-And you get leave, I-I know you get leave,” Sherlock spluttered, and John huffed a breath, shaking his head out across the station.

“Sherlock-” he started, but Sherlock stepped forward, lifting a hand in entreaty.

“I’m just saying, it-it doesn’t have to be goodbye. Not forever,” he argued, but John only continued to shake his head.

“Sherlock, we talked about this,” he said, tone stilted. “I- I have no idea what I’m-”

“What if- What if we made a plan?” Sherlock interjected, because plans he could do, plans he understood, unlike the swirling nausea in his stomach. “You’ll never leave London, we both know that,” he began, and John tipped his head in agreement, “so, what if, in…five years or whatever, we meet somewhere. Just that once, if you want, just-just to see.”

John smiled at him, almost patronizing, but Sherlock didn’t have to energy to be angry about it right now. “I’ll probably still be in the army in five years,” he answered, and then sighed as Sherlock simply continued to stare at him. “What about ten?” he finally resigned, shrugging a shoulder, but now Sherlock shook his head.

“No, that’s too long,” he snapped, and John laughed. “Seven,” he said definitively, and, luckily, John nodded.

“Okay,” the blond chuckled, but his smile was fond now, “seven years. Where?”

Sherlock shrugged, glancing around the open station. “What about here?” he suggested, and John quirked a brow. “Probably the least likely place to be converted to a Starbucks,” he added, and the blond laughed.

“That’s true,” he agreed, nodding. “Especially considering they already have one. So, you mean seven years from…what, today?”

“Why not?” Sherlock replied, plucking his mobile out of his pocket. “December 23rd, 2014 at…well, let’s just round down and say 3.”

John chuckled, shaking his head, and then simply smiled at him. “You’re serious?” he questioned, huffing a small laugh as Sherlock nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, and Sherlock thought he saw his blue eyes brighten just a little. “Seven years. It’s a date.”

Sherlock chuckled, dropping his face as he rocked on his heels. “God, what will I _wear_ ,” he quipped, and John laughed, one of his proper ones, and Sherlock mentally recorded it.

“Probably something that hasn’t been invented yet,” John countered. “Like a jetpack or a hoodie with a drawstring that doesn’t fall out in the wash.”

“I told you, if you tie them together-”

“I know, I know,” John muttered, rolling his eyes, and, though Sherlock tried to smile, he could feel the heaviness settling down on them again.

Sherlock always reminded John to do that whenever he did laundry, always yelled from John’s room to make sure he remembered while John headed down to the laundry in the basement of his building, but Sherlock wouldn’t be there anymore.

Someone else would have to do it.

That thought a bit too much to stomach, Sherlock sucked in a breath, moving directly in front of the boy in one swift stride. “John, I-” he started, finding there was one thing left to say after all, but John grabbed him by the collar of his coat, pulling him down to meet his reaching lips.

People write poems about kisses. They write novels and songs and sonnets, compose interpretive dances, paint pictures, and every other form of artistic expression under the sun. They tell grand emotive stories of fireworks, of time stopping, of swelling instrumental soundtracks, but this was not one of those, because, as John’s lips moved gently against his, Sherlock weakly responding, it tasted like goodbye, and there is no amount of lyric language that can make farewells feel like anything better than half-deaths.

John pulled away, his hand clinging to Sherlock’s collar as he tipped their foreheads together, breathing hot over Sherlock’s face. Slowly, his fingers unhooked, trailing a bit down his chest before severing contact, and something rattled loose inside Sherlock with the absence, like he’d fly free from the earth without John there to ground him. John blinked, eyes glassy and gaze broken as his feet began shuffling in short backward steps. “Goodbye, Sherlock,” he breathed, and Sherlock could do nothing, just clench his jaw shut to keep from screaming as John turned away, feeding his ticket through the turnstile and heading off down the platform, every step adding a further chill to the air. He paused when he reached the train, hovering a moment in a doorway, one foot on the platform while the other was already gone.

Sherlock couldn’t make out his expression when John glanced up, but he knew what he was supposed to do, knew what the ‘proper’ thing to do was, and so, he lifted his hand, waving it in a brief flick aside his head.

John smiled, that much Sherlock could see, and then, with a weary raise of his arm in reply, he was gone, the conductor closing the door immediately behind him.

“Goodbye,” Sherlock whispered, but the hiss of the gears swallowed his voice.

 

_**Heart, we will forget him!** _  
_**You and I, to-night!** _  
_**You may forget the warmth he gave,** _  
_**I will forget the light.** _

_**When you have done, pray tell me,** _  
_**That I my thoughts may dim;** _  
_**Haste! lest while you’re lagging,** _  
_**I may remember him!** _  
_**\--Emily Dickinson--** _

**December 24 th, 2008**

“Who’s Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John turned from where he was pulling on his shirt, frowning at the woman spread across the bed behind him, a bartender at one of the places they’d hit earlier that night when the group staying on base for Christmas had gotten tired of staring at one another.

The woman—Karen? Sharron? John needed to start paying more attention—smiled, pulling the sheet up over her breasts as she sat up, crossing her legs. “Sherlock,” she repeated, and John actually gasped, the physical reaction to the name unexpected, but chills were probably not entirely uncalled for, considering he’d been trying not to even think the word for a year. “That’s what you said. When you”—she flicked a hand in a prompting circle through the air—“ya know.”

John flushed, shaking his head as he turned away, reaching down to the floor to fetch his belt. “No one,” he muttered, the strap of leather shaking in his grip, and Sophia—he remembered now; Karen had been the last one—shuffled up closer to his back, fingers trailing down his spine.

“Someone you left behind?” she pressed, and John flinched.

“No,” he grunted, fumbling with the buckle, and the woman’s hands moved around to brush against his wrist, halting the movement.

“Boyfriend?” she guessed, blue nail varnish glittering in the dim light of her flat as she trailed circles over the back of his hand. “Doesn’t sound like a girl’s name.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” John snapped, hoping to end the conversation, but Sophia would not be swayed, draping herself around the side of his body, his shoulder pressed between her now bare breasts.

“Maybe he should be,” she said, dropping a kiss to the side of his neck, and John spun, pushing her back down on the bed as she giggled, the high sound pounding at his brain.

John pushed her legs apart, settling between them as he kissed her, her fingers tugging up at the back of his shirt, and he leaned up, pulling the fabric off over his head before returning to her mouth.

She tasted like cheap strawberry vodka, but his brain was full of nicotine and coffee—black, two sugars—and her hair, though curly, was not the right shade of brown, no gold in it to catch the light when it was struck just so, but John fumbled open the bedside drawer regardless, rummaging for a condom, because he was here now, and so was she, and that was going to have to be enough.

 

_**There are a hundred places where I fear** _  
_**To go,—so with his memory they brim.** _  
_**And entering with relief some quiet place** _  
_**Where never fell his foot or shone his face** _  
_**I say, ‘There is no memory of him here!’** _  
_**And so stand stricken, so remembering him.** _  
_**\--Edna St. Vincent Millay--** _

**December 22 nd, 2009**

“Hello?”

Sherlock dropped the violin from beneath his chin, turning away from the window to greet the newcomer with his customary, “What do you want?”

Molly smiled, stepping into the living room toward him as she unwound the scarf from her neck, surveying the surroundings. “So, this is the new place,” she admired, nodding vaguely. “Irene mentioned you’d moved. Nice spot.”

“It was the least undesirable option,” he replied, settling his violin back into its case on the table, and Molly chuckled.

“You gonna decorate for Christmas?” she asked, and Sherlock’s fingers clenched tightly around his bow.

“No,” he muttered stiffly, swallowing down the knot of nostalgia, “I don’t much care for Christmas.”

“Why not?”

“Did you want something?” He spun, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the table, and Molly blinked down to the floor, a faint blush dancing across her cheeks, and Sherlock felt a little bad about that. A little.

“Er, yeah, actually,” she muttered, stepping forward, and that was when Sherlock noticed the folder in her hand. “I-I’m working in the morgue now, as you probably-”

“I do,” Sherlock interjected, rolling a hand through the air to hurry things along.

Molly swallowed, a corner of her mouth lifting in a nervous twitch of a smile. “Right, um- Well, this man came in the other day. Gunshot wound to the temple.”

He straightened up, holding out a hand, and she promptly passed the file.

“The police say it’s a suicide, but-”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said, shaking his head as he flipped through Molly’s notes and photos. “This man was clearly left-handed, and there appear to be traces of another wound in addition to the bullet hole. He was probably shot to cover up a blunt force trauma.” He flicked the file shut, holding it out toward her, but she made no move to take it. Sherlock quirked a brow. “What?” he muttered, and Molly looked down, shuffling her feet as she twisted her fingers in front of her.

“Well, I- I was hoping you could…talk to the police,” she stammered, and Sherlock’s arm dropped back to his side, his eyes widening.

“Me?” he spluttered, shaking his head. “Why would I-”

“Because you call in all the time!” she bleated, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always giving them tips! They’ll believe it coming from you!”

“They never believe me!” Sherlock countered, tapping the file to his chest for emphasis. “And, if they do, I get interviewed as a suspect. And how would I even _explain_ it?” He lifted the folder beside his head, rattling it in the air. “I’m fairly certain you showing me this is eight different kinds of illegal.”

“I already talked to the inspector on the case,” Molly explained, moving forward as she gestured for Sherlock to open the file, which he did with a roll of his eyes. “He’s got a funny feeling about this one too. I told him about you, and he said, if you came up with anything, to give him a call. His number’s down there at the bottom.” She pointed to a scrawl at the bottom of one of the pages of her notes, and Sherlock squinted, struggling to read the cramped handwriting.

“Greg Lestrade?” he scoffed, lifting a brow up at her. “What kind of name is _Greg_?”

“Well, we can’t all be special snowflakes like you, _Sherlock_ ,” Molly snapped, and Sherlock blinked, affronted. Molly sighed, stepping back as she ran a hand through her hair. “Sorry, I-I’m sorry, I just- I need your help.” She looked at him, eyes open and pleading, and Sherlock’s jaw clenched in already failing stubbornness. “I-I don’t know what to do! There’s a _murderer_ out there, and-and if somebody doesn’t _do_ something-”

“Okay,” Sherlock muttered, and she stopped, blinking at him in disbelief.

“O-Okay?” she stammered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, brushing past her toward the door.

“It’s only two syllables, Molly,” he snapped, thundering down the stairs, “do you really need me to repeat it?”

“So, you’ll-you’ll help me?” she asked, chasing after him, and Sherlock sighed as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

“Yes, I will help you,” he said, slow this time, and Molly beamed at him before leaping the last two steps. “But only this once,” he added with a firm flick of his finger. “There’s only so much idiocy I have time to point out in this world, and Scotland Yard is far too large a task.”

“Fair enough,” Molly chuckled, bounding out the door after him, “but Greg said he might have some more stuff for you. If you turned out to be as good as I said you were, that is.”

“Greg?” Sherlock muttered, nose wrinkling in confusion as he hailed a cab. “Greg who?”

 

_**Do I dare** _  
_**Disturb the universe?** _  
_**In a minute there is time** _  
_**For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.** _  
_**\--T.S. Eliot--** _

**December 23 rd, 2010**

It was just a street. A street and a doorbell. Or maybe a knocker, it looked like a knocker from here. What if there was a doorbell _and_ a knocker, which was he supposed to use?

John huffed out a breath of self-exasperation, pacing back and forth across the pavement on the corner, catching glimpses of the door of 221B Baker Street through a fence. He’d spent the past two weeks of leave on his sister’s couch, making the mistake of getting caught up in the spirit of Christmas, but he couldn’t blame her entirely for this wreck of a holiday, his nerves perpetually rankled now that he was back in London.

Everywhere he went, if he had to go anywhere at all, he evaluated on a scale of 1 – 10 on how likely Sherlock was to frequent the establishment. Anything above a 5 was a no-go, and, thus, he had spent the majority of his time slowly driving his sister insane by insisting she used too much cream in her chicken tikka masala and too much butter in her sugar cookies. He’d also done his fair share of internet stalking, however, which was how he had ended up here: downright loitering outside of what was probably some terrified old woman’s house while trying to work up the courage to go knock on the door of his once-boyfriend, now apparently consulting detective. It suited him though, John had to admit, the man always having an eerie sort of knack for reading people. It seemed only fitting he make money at it, and gain a bit of notoriety, if some of the comments on his website were to be believed, crediting him with solving several high-profile cases, though the news articles had never mentioned him. John might have looked those up too. Maybe printed a couple. Or seven.

He puffed out a breath, the carbon dioxide misting in the air in front of him, and was just beginning to contemplate if he could throw rocks at the window from here when the front door opened, and John ducked down, now for sure giving the hypothetical elderly woman with three cats and a fondness for home shopping a heart attack.

A man stepped out, his red hair lurid even from here, and he was wearing a horrible brown suit which hung off his slim frame. He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, smoothing out the body with a few quick swipes, and then started down the road toward the tube station, briefcase swinging alongside his knee.

John’s fingers gripped tightly to the metal of the fence, the black paint quite possibly forming a tattoo on his palm.

There were two options as far as he could see it: one) the man was one of Sherlock’s clients leaving from a consultation, or two) the man was Sherlock’s boyfriend, who he was blissfully happy with, probably already married to—although John hadn’t found any sort of announcement through the course of his research—and Sherlock had forgotten all about him, would greet him at the door with a confused tilt of his head and an awkward invitation in for tea.

John was just about to flip a coin when there was movement in one of the upper windows, a figure passing across the dark glass, and John’s knees buckled, making him very thankful he was always crouched.

If Sherlock had changed, it had been for the better. His skin was still just as pale, but he seemed to have grown into the cheekbones a bit more, and his hair was a little longer than when John had last seen it, the curls capturing the winter sunlight that reached for him through the window. His eyes were averted, John being too far away to have seen them anyway, but he remembered what they looked like now, the grey-blue crashing back into his mind like the storm-fraught ocean John had always compared them to. And Sherlock would blush and push at his naked shoulder as John hovered over him in the bed, calling him an idiot in that way he had that always made it seem like a compliment, and then John would kiss him, cutting off every attempt at a retort with another press until Sherlock forgot what he was supposed to mad about.

John was panting before he even started running, lungs burning with the icy air, and he decided then and there that Sherlock was happy, that the redheaded man bereft of a decent tailor was his boyfriend/husband, that John’s reappearance would just be opening old wounds, because he couldn’t face admitting he was just as big a coward now as he had been when he’d stepped on that train.

 

_**Absence is such a large house** _  
_**that you’ll walk through the walls,** _  
_**hang pictures in sheer air.** _

_**Absence is such a transparent house** _  
_**that even being dead I will see you there,** _  
_**and if you suffer, Love, I’ll die a second time.** _  
_**\--Pablo Neruda--** _

**December 24 th, 2011 **

In the end, it was a case that did it, but that was a paltry excuse.

Sherlock had been looking his entire life for something to quiet the constant screaming in his mind, to dim the din long enough for him to be able to focus on anything but everything, and now, standing around a mahogany dining table in a manor that would put his family home to shame, Victor Trevor was offering it to him.

“Go on, take it,” he said, teeth glimmering within a frame of chapped lips, and Sherlock idly wondered why the leader of the most lucrative drug ring in the city wouldn’t invest in some lip balm. “First one’s on the house,” he added with a leer, bobbing the vial out toward him.

Sherlock frowned, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, and then stalled, fingers twitching uncertainly.

Victor only smiled broader, stepping closer to press the vial into his palm, encircling Sherlock’s hand with his own as he curled his fingers around it. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” he said, slapping him once on the back before striding away, the soles of his leather shoes nearly soundless on the marble.

Sherlock opened his fingers, watching the liquid dance in the light of the chandelier, and, for a second, a breath of a moment he quickly smothered, he heard a voice in his head he wished he’d forgotten long ago. Clenching his fist down on the glass, he dropped the solution into his pocket, twisting on his heels as he made for the door. “Happy Christmas, Vic,” he called over his shoulder, and, just before the latch clicked behind him, he could have sworn he heard a laugh drift out from the kitchen.

 

_**here is the deepest secret nobody knows** _  
_**(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud** _  
_**and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows** _  
_**higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)** _  
_**and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart** _

_**i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  
\--E.E. Cummings-- ** _

**December 23 rd, 2012**

There are lots of things about the desert that were terrible, but John thought this almost made up for it, lying back on the warm sand, his head pillowed on his arm.

“John?” a small voice came from behind him, and he whistled, directing the owner to his spot on the dune. “What are you doing out here?” Riley asked, his boots shifting the sand behind John’s head.

John shrugged. “Thinking,” he muttered, and then tilted his head, lifting an arm to point at the sky overhead. “You see those five stars there?” he asked, trailing a finger over the path. “The ones that kind of look like a sideways ‘W’?”

Riley craned his neck back, tilting his head to the left, and then the right. “Yeah,” he mused, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think so.”

“That’s Cassiopeia,” John explained, lowering his arm to bend both behind his head. “She was the queen of Aethiopia, and she had this daughter, Andromeda.”

Riley shuffled closer, moving to stand at John’s shoulder as he continued to look up at the sky.

“She was always boasting that she and her daughter were more beautiful than the sea nymphs, so Poseidon cursed her into the stars, forcing her to spin around the sky on her throne. The constellation sort of tilts as it goes around, making her have to hold on so she doesn’t fall off.”

“Wow,” Riley breathed, and then dropped a frown down to him. “How do you know that?”

John chuckled, shrugging into the sand. “Had to prove a point once,” he replied, the ache already beginning to creep across his chest. “Friend of mine used to fancy he knew everything—cleaned up every trivia game we ever played—but he didn’t know shit about the solar system, so I studied and picked the ‘Astronomy’ quiz next time.”

Riley laughed, and John managed a smile up at him. “Did it work?”

“Wiped the floor with him,” John grinned, and the younger man laughed, not noticing when John’s smile cracked a bit at the edges. “He didn’t talk to me for three days after that. Then he came back and wanted an ‘Entomology’ rematch.”

“How’d that turn out?” Riley asked, and John twitched a shoulder.

“I didn’t talk to him for four,” he replied, sending Riley into laughter again.

“Sounds like a good friend,” he said, harmlessly enough, but he might as well have just stabbed him and gotten it over with.

“Yeah,” John murmured, nodding up at the wandering queen, “he was.”

“Was?” Riley pressed, and John swallowed. “You guys have a falling out?”

John blinked twice in quick succession. “Something like that,” he dismissed, and then sat up, turning around to face the man properly. “Anyway, what did you come out here for?”

“Poker,” Riley said, jabbing a thumb back toward the barracks. “Wanted to know if we should deal you in.”

“Yeah, sure,” John confirmed, brushing the sand from his back as he stood. “But only if McDonald promises he’s not gonna cry again,” he added, following behind Riley as the young man laughed, but John turned his eyes back up to the stars, wondering if Cassiopeia knew she wasn’t the only one barely hanging on.

 

_**Hope is the thing with feathers** _  
_**That perches in the soul,** _  
_**And sings the tune without the words,** _  
_**And never stops at all** _  
_**\--Emily Dickinson--** _

**December 22 nd, 2013**

Another car passed, the passenger giving Sherlock an odd look where he stood frozen on the pavement, but he paid them no heed, his eyes locked on the large white building across the street.

This was the third time this week he had stood outside of the rehab center, currently going for his personal best with a record-breaking 34 minutes of loitering, but, try as he might, he couldn’t manage to convince himself to go in. He had a year left, after all, and would it really take a year? Surely he could postpone this another few months, get past the holidays, and still be right as rain by the time he saw John.

_John_.

Sherlock cursed under his breath, passing back and forth over the pavement, the hand he pushed through his hair trembling slightly with withdrawal.

What did he owe John, anyway? Why should he have to sacrifice his own happiness for someone who left him, abandoned him without even the slightest consideration to how Sherlock would feel about it, without even _asking_ him? Really, this was John’s fault. If he hadn’t left, if he hadn’t made Sherlock so desperate, he never would’ve…would’ve…

Sherlock sighed, dropping his face into his palm, his mind not even allowing him to think that way for too long.

This wasn’t John’s fault, no matter how much he wanted to make it that way. He couldn’t blame John for things he didn’t even _know_ about, and if he ever _did_ know about it…well…

He turned back toward the center, hands clenching to fists at his sides, and then stomped across the street, moving fast enough to outrun his doubt. There was a near-collision with a security guard, but the man stopped yelling after him when he saw Sherlock headed toward the front desk, which he nearly crashed into when he reached it, arms slamming down atop the counter.

“I need to check in,” he blurted, the middle-aged woman with three children and a cheating husband blinking up at him with wide green eyes.

“Um, okay,” she murmured, and then cleared her throat, pulling her chair up to the computer as she clicked at the keyboard. “Of-Of course. What’s the name on the reservation?”

Sherlock blinked, tilting his head at her with a frown? “Reservation?” he parroted. “What is this, a resort? Can I request an ocean view?”

The woman smiled the typical customer service smile as she twisted the chair toward him. “This is a highly sought-after rehabilitation facility. This waitlist is generally five to six months long, but I can get you some forms and-”

“Six months!?” Sherlock blustered, mouth dropping open. “Who the _hell_ would-”

“He has a reservation.”

Sherlock whirled around at the familiar voice, pressing himself back against the counter.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said, swinging his umbrella in a single swirl before tapping it against the tile, standing rigidly straight at Sherlock’s side.

The woman blinked between them, and then flushed as Mycroft quirked a brow at her, ducking her head to clack madly at the keyboard. “Oh, yes,” she muttered, eyes blowing wide. “Yes, of-of course. I’ll-I’ll go get someone to help you right away, Mr. Holmes. There’s, um, refreshments over there, if-if you would like. While you wait.” She smiled one last nervous twist of her mouth between them, and then darted away, disappearing through a door behind the desk.

Sherlock blinked after her a moment, and then rounded on Mycroft, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here!?” he hissed, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, turning to look back out over the lobby.

“I’d have thought that was rather obvious,” he sniffed, scanning with disdain over a small group knitting in the corner. “I’m getting you the help you so _desperately_ need.”

“By throwing me into a rehab I didn’t even-”

“Oh, let’s not pretend, Sherlock,” Mycroft scoffed, cutting off his tirade as he turned to him once more. “You’ve been thinking about this for _months_. And this is the only place with even a _remotely_ decent program; it was clearly the only option.”

Sherlock’s mouth moved soundlessly a moment, and then he snapped it shut, glaring up at Mycroft’s smirk. “Fine,” he bit, “but how did you know I’d come here _today_? Or did you have the reservation booked to throw me in here no matter what?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft muttered with a roll of his eyes. “It was a standing reservation. Not something they usually do, mind you,” he added with a tip of his head, looking out toward the entrance, “but anything can be accomplished with a large enough check. You could’ve shown up any time in the past three months and been admitted.”

Sherlock gaped at the back of his brother’s head, all the fight bleeding out through his fingertips as his arms fell limply to his sides. “You-”

“Okay!”

They both turned, desk-lady joined by a woman in a fitted navy suit, clearly someone in charge, and she smiled at them, extending her hand to Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said as Sherlock met her palm with a tentative one. “Great to finally have you with us. I’m Annie Winton, chief of staff here at Maple Ridge. All your bags are already in your room, if you’d like to follow me.”

“Bags?” Sherlock murmured, turning back to Mycroft with a frown, but his brother only smiled.

“I took the liberty of having your things packed while you were dawdling outside,” he replied, and Sherlock didn’t even have it in him to glare anymore, something that seemed to startle Mycroft, as he blinked, brow creasing as he searched over Sherlock’s face.

“There’s also a tour scheduled for later today,” Annie interrupted, and Sherlock twisted back to find her suddenly much closer, her once friendly smile turning manic at the short distance. “After you’ve had some time to settle in. I’ll be taking you around myself to show you all the _wonderful_ resources we have here at Maple Ridge.”

“I- Um-” Sherlock stammered, and then simply nodded, that seeming the safest option.

“Great!” Annie chirped, apparently the farthest thing from perturbed by his silence. “Now,” she started, tone suddenly official as she passed a thin blue folder to him, “this is an overview of the policies of the facility, as well as maps, schedules, the menu for the week, etc. This is an entirely drug-free zone, meaning no pain killers, cough syrup, caffeine-”

“Wait, what?” Sherlock blurted, lifting a hand to halt her. “No…caffeine?”

Annie bobbed a nod, grinning like that wasn’t the _worst_ idea anyone had _ever_ had. “It’s important to us here at Maple Ridge to remove any potential temptations of addiction, but, don’t worry,” she smiled, batting a hand in the air between them, “you can still have your coffee fix! We get only the best stuff; you can’t even tell it’s decaf.”

“Wanna bet?” Sherlock muttered, and she frowned, the stupidity of the concept apparently beyond her limited grasp. In the short pause his comment created, however, he heard a small click, and whirled around to see Mycroft had left, him and his umbrella nearly at the exit. “Wait!” Sherlock cried, not entirely sure why himself, but Mycroft looked even more surprised, gaping at him like Sherlock had just screamed something vulgar.

“What?” he spluttered as Sherlock drew up in front of him, and, for a moment, Sherlock had no idea how to answer.

Finally, he snapped his hand out, holding it between them. “Thank you,” he blurted before he could think better of it, eyes fixed on Mycroft’s chest, but he could _hear_ him smiling.

“Of course, Sherlock,” his brother said softly, taking Sherlock’s hand in his, and, as Sherlock peeked up, he thought Mycroft’s eyes were just a bit more glossy than usual.

He smiled as their hands parted, his slipping awkwardly into his pockets as he slid the toe of a shoe across the tile. “You’ll- You’ll visit, right?” he mumbled, and Mycroft’s blurry mouth dropped in his peripheral vision.

“I- Of course,” he replied, nodding as Sherlock looked up at him. “If-If you’d like.”

Sherlock sniffed a small laugh, half his mouth curling. “Well, someone’s going to have to smuggle me in real coffee,” he muttered, peering over his shoulder at where Annie stood waiting none-too patiently, and then turned back as Mycroft chuckled.

“I’ve already got a man on the inside,” he said with a wink, and Sherlock bit his lip to keep from snorting. “He’s working in the kitchen. He should find you within the next hour or so.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said with a nod, not quite sure what else to do, and, rather belatedly, the nerves began to twist in his stomach.

A hand settled warm on his shoulder and Sherlock started, looking up the arm to find Mycroft smiling at him, an affectionate curl of his lips Sherlock couldn’t even _remember_ the last appearance of.

“It’ll be alright,” he assured, and Sherlock was suddenly three years old again, positive the monsters under his bed had been cleared because Mycroft had checked with a torch.

“I know,” he muttered, and Mycroft chuckled, withdrawing his hand.

“I’ll see you Friday,” he said over his shoulder, continuing his path toward the door.

“Friday?” Sherlock questioned, and Mycroft smirked.

“Of course,” he quipped, twirling his umbrella through the air. “Visitors’ Day!” He flashed a final grin behind him before pushing out into the sun, and Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, truly smiled back.

 

_**Do not go gentle into that good night,** _  
_**Old age should burn and rave at close of day;** _  
_**Rage, rage against the dying of the light.** _

_**Though wise men at their end know dark is right,** _  
_**Because their words had forked no lightning they** _  
_**Do not go gentle into that good night.** _  
_**\--Dylan Thomas--** _

**December 20 th, 2014**

One day. He’d only had one more day.

John closed his eyes against a swirl of dizziness, turning his head with a hiss of pain. His shoulder was a mess, an unrecognizable mangle of skin, but it was the blood John was watching, his life steadily draining out of him in a pool on the swept dirt floor.

They hadn’t seen it coming, the ambush suddenly bursting forth from one of the houses while they were doing a routine patrol. The villagers had gone running, hiding wherever they could, but a few of them had been hit, caught in the crossfire of a fight they had never asked for.

John tried to do what he could, racing back-and-forth between civilians and soldiers alike, but they’d caught him crossing through an alley, the bullet ripping through his arm just before he made it to safety around the corner. He’d made his way to an empty house after that, doing his best to cover his blood trail along the way, but he knew he had no hope if they were to find him now, barely able to even _feel_ his fingers, let alone fire the gun he had pulled and pointed limply toward the door. He panted, listening to his own breath hiss and puff out of him, aware it was slowing even if he couldn’t stop it, and, though backup was assuredly on the way, he was also aware he wasn’t likely to last long enough to see them.

He should have said it.

There were a lot of things going through John’s mind—apologies he should have given, confessions he should have made—but the one thing, the _one thing_ that made his fists clench and his eyes burn was that he had left Sherlock at that train station and never told him, never found the words. Sure, Sherlock probably knew, had read it in some subtle nuance of the way John drank tea or folded clothes, but that didn’t excuse not saying it, didn’t excuse his cowardice in insisting on this entire thing in the first place, because he had _known_ Sherlock didn’t want it, had seen it in his face the second John had suggested they break it off proactively. And, in the end, the entire thing had been a wasted effort, because, for all his grand delusions of nobility, the only person he had been trying to protect was himself. He’d thought it would make it easier, make him more capable of charging into battle if he were unfettered by the obligation of staying alive for someone else, but all he’d really done was give Sherlock more to mourn, a wasted seven years of never knowing, because John had never said it, had never told him, and now he was going to die alone in the desert, the only person who ever mattered never knowing how much.

There was a shout from outside, the words unintelligible to John’s fading senses, and, as his eyes finally closed, the gun falling softly from his hands, he prayed an apology, hoping beyond hope it somehow found its mark.

 

_**Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because—** _  
_**because—I don’t know how to say it: a day is long** _  
_**and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station** _  
_**when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.** _

_**Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because** _  
_**then the little drops of anguish will all run together,** _  
_**the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift** _  
_**into me, choking my lost heart.** _  
_**\--Pablo Neruda--** _

**December 23 rd, 2014**

He’d wait until 4:30 and then leave.

Well, maybe 4:45.

But then there was the 5pm after-work rush, and if John got caught in _that_ …

7, he’d wait until 7.

Give or take.

Sherlock sat on a bench, eyes alternating between the coffee shop and the turnstiles, regretting not having specified _where_ precisely they should meet in King’s Cross. He’d arrived at 1, and it was now 4:17, his entire body aching from being pulled taut with tension all that time.

Should he call? But John had probably changed his number, and, besides, getting here two hours early was clingy enough.

Maybe John had been thinking of a different King’s Cross? No, that was even more absurd.

Maybe he’d witnessed a crime, been drawn into the witness protection program, and couldn’t possibly show his face again at risk of endangering them both? Plausible.

Sherlock stood, pacing a bit as the voice that had been needling him since the day John had left broke past its barricade again.

Maybe he’s just not coming. Maybe he was glad to be rid of you. Maybe he finally smartened up and saw what everyone else saw in you and had the good sense to run for the hills.

He stopped, burying his face in his hands as he breathed deeply, the shadows comforting as his own breath bounced back hot over his cheeks.

John wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Not John, and not to him. He’d come; no matter what, he would come, because John Watson was the type of person who got up at 5am to help you revise for a chemistry final when he didn’t have anything going until noon, who pretended not to like scary movies so that you didn’t have to admit you were the one frightened, who bought the entire tray of your shitty cookies from the LGBT Society bake sale, and then _ate_ them, god help him. No, John Watson would not do this, would not leave him waiting, not unless he had to, unless he could not _possibly_ find a way, and John always found a way, so the only reason he would ever, _ever_ not show up would be if-

This was not the way Sherlock had been told time stopped. It was supposed to be pleasant, supposed to be magical, but his tongue turned to ash in his mouth, his knees wobbled, and he was sure he was going to be sick if he didn’t pass out first. A steady stream of frantic ‘no’s running through his head, he fished out his mobile, hand shaking so violently, he could barely press the speed dial button.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft answered. “Why are you calling me? Isn’t today your big-”

“I need you to find John!” Sherlock blurted, fingers tightening around the case of his mobile, his heart skipping faster at even _saying_ the name again. “He’s not here, and I-I don’t-”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently, and Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes, already sure where this was going, “that might not be such a good idea. If John didn’t come, it may be that-”

“He wouldn’t do that!” Sherlock spouted, earning a glare from an elderly man reading the paper nearby. “You know he wouldn’t do that! Even if he had the blonde schoolteacher wife, and the boy and new baby girl, and the German Shepherd named Connery-”

“Connery?”

“His favorite Bond,” Sherlock snapped, rattling his head at the aside. “The _point_ is, he would tell me. You know he would tell me; you met him!”

“Once, Sherlock,” Mycroft urged. “I met the man _once_.”

“And!?” Sherlock exclaimed, half the café glaring at him now. “That’s plenty of time! Now, can you find him or not!?”

Silence for a moment, nothing but Sherlock’s frantic breathing on the line between them, and then Mycroft sighed.

“I’ll see what I can find,” he replied, and Sherlock wilted down onto a bench in relief.

“Okay,” he murmured, nodding as he dropped his face, reaching across his forehead to grind into his temples. “Okay,” he repeated, and there was no reply but the beep of a terminated call.

What he clocked as three minutes, but what felt like three weeks later, his mobile rang, and he nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.

“What did you find?” he blurted the second the call connected, but Mycroft didn’t say anything at first. “Mycroft!?” he pleaded urgently, eyes already beginning to sting as a knot lodged in his throat.

“I- Sherlock-” Mycroft said softly, and Sherlock’s vision blurred. “There’s-There’s been an incident.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, entire body shaking. “He- He’s not-”

“No!” Mycroft spouted, and all the air swept from Sherlock’s lungs as he vowed simultaneously to kill and hug his idiot brother for not _opening_ with that! “No, heavens no! But he is-”

“Where?” Sherlock asked, already running toward the exit, not planning on heeding any of the security guards shouting at him unless they pulled a gun.

“St. Bart’s,” Mycroft said promptly, and Sherlock hung up, bursting out the doors and leaping in front of the first cab he saw.

 

_**If they be two, they are two so** _  
_**As stiff twin compasses are two;** _  
_**Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show** _  
_**To move, but doth, if the other do.** _

_**And though it in the center sit,** _  
_**Yet when the other far doth roam,** _  
_**It leans and hearkens after it,** _  
_**And grows erect, as that comes home.** _

_**Such wilt thou be to me, who must,** _  
_**Like th' other foot, obliquely run;** _  
_**Thy firmness makes my circle just,** _  
_**And makes me end where I begun.** _  
_**\--John Donne--** _

_“Hey, sorry,” John said, smiling apologetically down at the young woman behind the desk at the library. “I was just looking for a book. The study guide for Harris’ Human Anatomy?”_

_The woman barely glanced at him, focused intently on her computer screen as she periodically clicked keys. “All checked out,” she answered, and John frowned._

_“Did you check?” he asked, and she glared up at him like this wasn’t her job._

_“People have been asking all day,” she snapped, returning her eyes to the computer screen. “They were all checked out an hour ago; they’re all checked out now.”_

_“Well, could someone have returned one?” he pressed, leaning further over the counter._

_“I’ve been here the whole time,” she replied, still not looking at him. “I think I would’ve noticed if someone returned anything.”_

_“Yeah, you seem real astute,” John muttered, only getting a sneer for his trouble. He sighed, turning back around, ready to go home and try to find it online for a price that wouldn’t require parting with a kidney, when a low chuckle to his left caught his attention. Glancing over, he saw a boy leaning against one of the shelves, his long legs crossed at the ankles as he smiled._

_“World of Warcraft,” he said, bobbing his head at the charming young woman, and John frowned, tilting his head. The boy chuckled again, pushing up to standing as he approached, and John knew right away he was doomed, his knees already liquid at the boy’s eyes, let alone throwing in the hair and lips and cheekbones. “She’s playing World of Warcraft,” he elaborated, tossing a wave over John’s shoulder, and John turned to find the girl in question glaring at them both, red-faced. “Always is.”_

_“How can you tell?” John asked, and the man smirked, sending John’s stomach into a spiral it would never entirely recover from._

_“Reflection in her glasses,” he replied with a shrug. “Easy, really.”_

_John looked back to the girl, who was now studiously pretending she couldn’t hear them, and saw that, indeed, you could see a faint reflection of the computer screen across the lenses, but it was terribly distorted, would’ve looked like anything to most people. “Wow,” John murmured, chuckling slightly, “you saw that from over there?”_

_“Oh, no,” the man amended, shaking his head. “I had the pleasure of speaking with her earlier. Seems I got the last one of these.” He lifted the flap of his shoulder bag, pulling out the study guide of John’s dreams, and John would later swear there had really been a glow and chorus of angels, but he wouldn’t be talking about the book. “You’re in that class, aren’t you?” the boy asked, tilting his head, and John nodded eagerly._

_“Yeah, I- Wait, do you have it with Mitchell?” he questioned, and the man nodded. “Then, how come I’ve never seen you?”_

_The brunette chuckled, cradling the book loosely against his chest. “Well, I could remind you that there are over a hundred people in that lecture,” he said, lifting a dark brow, “but the truth is I just never go.”_

_John laughed, nodding sagely. “Can’t blame you for that. I wouldn’t either if I didn’t need to take notes, but I couldn’t afford the textbook, so-” He broke off with a shrug, flushing around his collar as he realized he’d probably revealed a touch too much, but the boy didn’t mention it, only frowning thoughtfully down at the book in his hands._

_“Well,” he murmured, rocking on his heels as he scraped a thumb down the pages with a hiss, “we could share it. If you’d like.” He shrugged, plucking at a corner of the binding. “I’m sure your notes would be helpful, seeing as I haven’t been here.”_

_“Really?” John inquired, inherently suspicious of things going his way. “You’d just…share it?”_

_“Why not?” the man replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “Probably better for me, actually. I have a horrible attention span when left to my own devices.”_

_John laughed, prompting a smile from the man. “Well, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be on that front,” he admitted with a bob of his head, “but two heads are always better than one, I suppose. John Watson,” he said, offering a hand, and the boy shifted the book in his grasp, taking John’s palm with his pale one._

_“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied with a small smile, and they both took a little longer than appropriate to let go._

**December 24 th, 2014**

Beep…beep…

John opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling, disoriented to find he was not, in fact, in the university library. With an effort that sent a spasm of pain through his head, he remembered he was also not 20 anymore, and, the moment thereafter, he recognized the sterile white of a hospital. It was dark, thankfully, allowing his eyes at least to not be in pain, but everything else _throbbed_! He felt like he’d just been- Oh…right…

Turning his neck as much as he was able within the bandages, he looked down at his shoulder, finding it completely obscured by white, but at least there was no blood on it. Bracing himself for the worst, he looked down to his fingers, letting out a breath when they moved on his command, and then started, suddenly realizing he was wearing an oxygen mask when his sigh of relief came out in stereo. He wriggled beneath it, his good arm clumsily trying to brush it away, and then turned to the right, freezing as he caught sight of a figure in the chair.

There was no moment of confusion, no doubt, no second-guess. There was only Sherlock Holmes, undeniably Sherlock Holmes, curled up in a chair in the corner, his absurd coat draped atop him like a blanket.

John stared at him for a moment in disbelief, wondering if he had perhaps died after all, this scene merely a strangely tailored version of heaven, but that was quickly dismissed. If this were heaven, Sherlock wouldn’t look so tired, so thin, and John would like to think God would at least have given him a bed to sleep on instead of a tiny chair. His back was going to be in knots when he woke up, and John thought he might weep with joy at being able to hear Sherlock complain for days about something again, the swell of emotion reflected in the increased squealing of his heart monitor.

Sherlock twitched, a small sign of waking, and John once again got to work on his mask, trying to direct his arm to bend. There was a hiss of a sigh, and John stopped, turning his eyes to watch Sherlock’s open, grey blinking lazily into consciousness, and it was just the same as always, as the first time and the last, and John wanted to ask him if he remembered, _needed_ to know if he remembered, if he’d be willing to do it all again.

The moment Sherlock realized what was going on was obvious, his eyes flaring wide as his mouth dropped open, and he indelicately fell out of the chair with a _fwump_ of limbs and coat in his scramble to get upright. “John!” he bleated, limping over to John’s bedside, one of his legs clearly gone dead. “You’re awake! You’re- I have to call the nurse!” He lunged for the button, but John swatted at him, shaking his head. “What?” Sherlock muttered, frowning down at him as he bent low over John’s face. “What are you- Hey!” He grabbed John’s wrist, pulling his hand away his oxygen mask. “What are you _doing_!? You have to keep that on!”

John shook his head, pushing Sherlock’s hand loose, but the detective just grabbed it with the other one, pushing the mask down onto John’s face.

“John, it’s okay! You’re in a hospital,” he eased, and John frowned, confused as to when he’d suddenly become a five-year-old. “I’m a friend, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you,” he continued softly, speaking again before John could tell him he hadn’t anywhere close to forgotten who he was. “There was an accident, and you were hurt. Now, I just have to call the doctor, and-”

“Sherlock,” John interjected, and the man looked even more shocked than when John had woken up, “I was shot, not concussed.”

Sherlock simply continued to gape at him, and John took the opportunity to shove his arm away, snatching free the oxygen mask.

“John, no!” Sherlock cried, finally coming back to himself as he grabbed for the mask, which John promptly shoved beneath his blankets. “What are you- John, that’s your _oxygen_!” he barked, tugging at John’s arm, though considerably more gentle than he could’ve been, and that damn near broke John’s heart in the best way. “You need it!”

“I’m breathing fine,” he dismissed, his voice desert dry, and then promptly broke into a bout of coughing, Sherlock giving him a chiding glare before going back to concerned as he fetched a glass of water from the bedside table, feeding the straw into John’s mouth. John took the offered drink, but let his guard down a second too long, and Sherlock grabbed the oxygen mask, trying to force it back on his face. “No!” John protested, already getting tired again as he batted weakly at Sherlock’s grappling hands. “I have to- I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me with the mask on,” Sherlock countered, entirely unsympathetic, but John twisted his face away.

“No, you won’t be able to hear me.”

“So write it down,” Sherlock snapped, pulling at his chin, but John shook him loose.

“No pen,” he murmured, and Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

“John,” he said, firm and steady with threat, his lips dropping apart in affront as John actually shushed him.

“Just-Just a second,” he mumbled, blinks slowing down as Sherlock began to blur. “I-I have to tell you. I have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Sherlock snapped, as if half considering finishing the bullet’s job.

John swallowed, forcing his eyes to focus, if only for just a few seconds longer, because this was important, this he needed to see, to never forget. “I love you,” he breathed, and Sherlock’s arm fell limply to the bed, his face stretching in shock. “I love you,” John repeated, his tongue barreling on with gibberish he could barely control. “Always. Always. More than your redhead husband.”

“My what?” Sherlock said, hissing over a startled laugh as his eyes danced.

“Does-Doesn’t matter,” John mumbled, trying to shake his head, but it seemed to mostly just wobble. “’Cause- ‘Cause I love you.” He blinked, staring up at Sherlock’s face, watching as a swallow moved down the man’s throat, a watery smile beneath storm-grey eyes. “I love you,” John whispered once more, and Sherlock sucked in a gust of a breath, dropping his face and huffing out a chuckle that might have been more of a sob, as, a second later, when he lifted his eyes, they were undeniably damp.

“I love you too,” he creaked, smiling as John’s eyes widened, that somehow coming as a shock. Sherlock then grinned, shaking his head as he gently lifted John’s, threading the oxygen mask back over his mouth and nose. “Idiot,” he added fondly, and John drifted back to sleep with a smile on his face, cool fingers carding through his hair.

*****

**December 25 th, 2015**

“Hurry up!” Sherlock shouted, bouncing in his seat. “We’re going to be late!”

“We already _are_ late,” Lestrade replied, and Sherlock glared at him from the passenger seat.

“Well, then we’re going to be _more_ late,” he snapped, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Can’t you drive any faster?” he barked, peering out the window, the street outside not rushing past nearly fast enough. “This is a _police_ _car_ , for chrissake!”

“What do you want me to do?” Lestrade barked, waving a hand at the dash. “Turn the siren on? Call ahead and change all our lights to green?”

“Wait, can you do that?” Sherlock asked, snapping his head to the inspector, and Lestrade groaned, speeding up as they neared Baker Street.

Sherlock flew out of the car before it was even completely stopped, Lestrade shouting something about crushing his feet that went unacknowledged as Sherlock threw open the door, pounding up the stairs. He skidded into the kitchen, grabbing onto the doorframe to make the turn, and then stopped dead.

Five and a half feet of retired army doctor stood in front of him, arms crossed and foot tapping against the linoleum, his jaw clenched.

Sherlock wilted, shoulders slumping as he hitched up a weak smile. “Hi,” he muttered, flicking a twitch of a wave, and then pinning his arm back to his side when John did not reply. “So,” he drawled, eyes shifting side-to-side, “how was work?”

“You’re late,” John deadpanned, and Sherlock nearly folded in half with a sigh, shuffling into the room.

“I know, I know,” he whimpered, “but there was this case, and-and Lestrade-”

“Oi!” The inspector poked his head in from the living room, pointing sharply at Sherlock. “Do not drag me into this! I reminded you _at least_ four times.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in a squawk of betrayal as the man left, moving away to talk to the other guests—a small gathering of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Irene, and Mycroft—and then the detective turned sheepishly back to John.

John said nothing, only quirked a brow, but he might as well have yelled for all the guilt that came crashing down on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, shaking his head down at the ground. “I-I lost track of time.”

“What was your _one_ job for the _entire_ Christmas party?” John snipped, lifting a single finger in the air.

Sherlock watched his shoe shift across the linoleum. “Not to leave you alone with Mycroft,” he mumbled.

“Not to leave me alone with Mycroft,” John repeated affirmatively. “And what did you do?” he prompted, tipping his head as he lifted his brows.

Sherlock sighed, scratching at the side of his throat. “Left you alone with Mycroft.”

“He was here an hour early, Sherlock!” John hissed, arms unfolding as he waved a furious hand out at the living room. “An _hour_! You know who now knows the entire _stirring_ history of The Diogenes Club? Hmm?”

Sherlock winced, looking at John through his lashes. “You?” he guessed, and John leaned back, throwing his arms out wide.

“Ding, ding, ding! Tell him what he’s won!” he mocked, and then turned away, heading toward the fridge.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded, but the man’s back only grew more rigid as he shifted aimlessly at the party trays. Sherlock sighed, dropping his head, and then remembered the bag in his hand, a bright smile lighting his face as he stepped forward, lifting it aloft. “I remembered milk!” he offered in consolation, and John froze.

Slowly, he turned, expression incredulous. “You remembered…milk,” he repeated, blinking at the bag, and then returned to staring at Sherlock as the man nodded. Slowly, starting with a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth and a small crinkle of his eyes, John dissolved into laughter, leaning back against the fridge as he nearly wept with it, and Sherlock lowered the bag, frowning in confusion. “Oh my god! Oh my _god_!” John panted, wiping at his eyes. “I _actually_ feel better!” he laughed, waving a hand at the bag. “I can’t _believe_ it; I’m not mad at you anymore! Forget _everything_ , and then, when you remember _milk_ \- You’ve Pavlov’d me!”

“Not intentionally,” Sherlock was quick to contradict, just in case John actually thought he was breaking the ‘no experiments on the boyfriend’ rule, but that seemed to only make John laugh harder.

“You’re a nightmare,” he sighed fondly, shaking his head as he took the milk from Sherlock, storing it in the fridge. “An absolute nightmare.”

“I know,” Sherlock answered, because he did, but they were both smiling as John moved back toward him, “but you’re still here.”

John chuckled, looping an arm around Sherlock’s back as he pulled him in, ghosting their lips together as he spoke. “Yeah, well, I have notoriously poor judgment,” he breathed, and Sherlock shuddered.

“I’ve noticed,” he replied, lifting a hand to twist at the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “You have a whole closet full of poor judgment.”

“What do you have against my jumpers, seriously?” John spouted, leaning back, and Sherlock laughed. “No, seriously! I mean, the green one, I get, but I only ever wear that one inside anymore, and-”

Sherlock cut off his ranting with a press of his lips, tugging John in by the horrible jumper—something he _claimed_ he bought for the ugly sweater party, but Sherlock knew it had been in their closet at least a week before they’d planned it.

After a moment, John lifted a hand to the back of his scalp, gripping into the curls, and then suddenly yanked his head to the side, Sherlock’s lips popping away from his a moment in a gasp of surprise. John took full advantage, sliding his tongue past Sherlock’s teeth to swirl in one hard sweep around his mouth, and Sherlock scrambled at his shoulder, somehow always reduced to a whimpering teenager whenever John wanted him to be.

He was just starting to respond when John pulled away, the sound just the sexy side of lewd, and Sherlock rocked a bit on his feet, unbalanced, before blinking open his eyes.

John lifted a finger between them, eyes glittering with steel. “You’re not off the hook,” he snapped, and then twisted away, leaving Sherlock gaping after him, stunned and needy. “Grab the cheese out of the fridge,” John delegated, heading toward the living room, the voices of their guests drifting through the closed sliding door.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, eyes narrowing at the back of the man’s head. “That an order, _Captain_?” he bit, and John turned to him in the doorway, eyebrow rising dangerously.

“I dunno,” he drawled, tilting his head with a smirk that made Sherlock fairly certain he was melting, “would you like it to be?” And, with a wink, he was gone, disappearing out the door and into public view where Sherlock couldn’t take off his trousers.

“Fuck!” he groaned, stomping back across to the fridge, simply standing there in the cold of it for a while, breathing deeply as he tried to settle his libido, and then, quite suddenly, he laughed, chuckling softly down at the cheese tray as he pulled it from the shelf. “Idiot,” he murmured, heart straining painfully against his ribs as it swelled, and then he pushed open the door to the living room, greeted with every kind of scolding from everyone who had apparently already taken John’s side, and finally, _finally_ , it was Christmas.


End file.
